And The Odds Have Never Been In Your Favor
by outside the crayon box
Summary: Peeta and Katniss won the Games, but are not considered rebels. This year is the Quarter Quell, and, of course, they are forced to be mentors. The story of living through another Games, even worse than the first. But, as the saying goes, "The odds have never been in your favor." *SYOC Closed*
1. Character List

**DISTRICT 1**

**Male: **Achilles Aldivore **by** sc148

**Female: **Renee Charlotte Mitchell **by** Demetra Blackstone

**DISTRICT 2**

**Male: **Styx Flame **by **Guest (guest)

**Female: **Cilenna Erin Mowayed **by **DreamCatchers Moon

**DISTRICT 3**

**Male: **Grant Kesley Simmons **by **cerulean cascades

**Female: **Kelly Valentines **by** XxWhyxxSoxxSeriousxX

**DISTRICT 4**

**Male: **Dax Hearth **by **shadowssj12

**Female: **River Clarke **by **A (guest)

**DISTRICT 5**

**Male: **Griffith Nava **by** Atlas12

**Female: **Sadie Johanest **by **PjoHPLSR

**DISTRICT 6**

**Male: **Carson Fair **by** outside the crayon box

**Female: **Minnie Monte **by** wolfgirl12390

**DISTRICT 7**

**Male: **Sebastiano Schillaciani **by **MaxMan667

**Female: **Staria Aspen **by** blitzjewel

**DISTRICT 8**

**Male: **Marshall Clifton **by** CalamityCalamari

**Female: **Karin Mona Louvre **by **RosemaryAlysse

**DISTRICT 9**

**Male: **Max Benjamin Griffin **by** PucktanaFanForever

**Female: **Annabelle Lessim **by **Flower-Vine67

**DISTRICT 10**

**Male: **Joshua Nathaniel Garcia **by** BabyGleeFan11

**Female: **Skylar Joyce Edmondson **by** mystiques

**DISTRICT 11**

**Male: **Dylan Crescent Carlisle **by **Polished Swirls

**Female: **Natasha Marino **by** h3rmi0ne

***DISTRICT 12***

**Male: **Kaleb Rush **by **ThatFunnyGirlDefyingGravity

**Female: **Sephora Williams **by** and then we fell


	2. Chapter 1

***KATNISS'S POV***

It still takes effort to wake up in the morning and realize that I have everything I ever wanted: clean clothes, my own bed, fresh food and water, a hot shower, a nice house. I don't even have to hunt.

But on this day, the Reaping, the urge is stronger than ever. I want nothing more than to escape into the woods with my father's bow and arrow, secure in the knowledge that Gale has my back, invincible.

And it's funny. Even though almost anyone in District 12 would beg for the life that I have, I still miss the small things. The way the supple leather of my hunting boots molded to my feet. The feeling of stringing an arrow through my bow, watching as it zips through the air. Gale's strong arms closing around me when I needed a shoulder to cry on. I can't have that anymore.

The hunting boots are in our old house, at the outskirts of town, directly across from the meadow. Technically, it's still ours. If I were to suddenly drop dead, my mother and Prim would have to go back. But right now, they use it as a makeshift hospital and shelter. Either Mother or Prim will drop in a few times a week to heal wounded mine workers and soothe everyone's spirits.

The bow, with my quiver full of arrows, is tucked securely under its log in the woods. Never in a million years would I have entertained the notion that I wouldn't be able to retrieve them again. I wonder if Gale uses them.

Gale. I can hardly think his name without tearing up. I know I should be grateful. The Capitol hasn't once blamed Peeta and me for a rebellion, even though we are the ones who outsmarted the Gamemakers. They've given us this beautiful home. They've made a life for Mother and Prim. And Peeta. And me.

But they've forbidden me from having any contact whatsoever with Gale. Snow is so worried that any whisper of defiance will light a spark that will send Panem up in flames, so right now, they're playing the star-crossed lovers card. The only reasonable excuse is that I was simply so in love with Peeta, so desperate to return to District 12 with him at my side, that I would rather die than be without him. And Peeta and I had to agree.

I guess being seen around town with a hunky, muscular male, who more often than not has his arm wrapped around my shoulder, wouldn't be very good for the public image.

Not that I don't love Peeta. I do. And not that I want to go back to that rotting shack. I don't. But every time I see my old hunting partner around the village, I can't meet his eyes. One smile, and I know I'd want to continue where we left off.

But I can't.

* * *

"Katniss?"

I jolt up from my daze and force a smile. "Peeta." I climb out of bed and throw my arms around him. "Good morning."

"Happy Reaping," he replies. "The cameras are going to be here in two hours. We'd better start getting ready."

If District 12 had any more victors, we'd be scorned among them, sneered at for being young and naive. But the fact is, we're the only winners we've ever had. Other than Haymitch Abernathy, who is more often than not drunk out of his mind. It's his way of coping, I guess.

I take a deep breath. "We're mentoring this year."

"And for many more to come," Peeta reminds me. "It's not a one-shot deal."

"I know." I sigh.

"I can't believe our first time is a Quarter Quell, either," Peeta says.

"No, that's not it. I just don't think I can survive through another Games, watching from the sidelines as two children we've tried our best for are brutally murdered by the Careers. I won't be able to take it." I tense up, remembering the spear that pierced Rue's stomach and took her life. "I don't know how Effie does it."

"At least she's not in the thick of it. We are. And now we have an hour-and-a-half."

"Alright. I'll go get ready."

I'm in and out of the shower in a flash. After drying myself off, I place my hand on a box that sends an electric current through my hair, untangling my brown mane and letting it float elegantly over my shoulders. I wrap my body in a towel and open the door to the bathroom. Steam billows out, and for a moment I feel woozy.

"Hey, there." Peeta laughs as he catches me. "Don't pass out on me."

"Don't worry. I just got dizzy for a second."

He doesn't look particularly convinced, but he lets me go and follows me to the room we share. "What are you going to wear?"

"A nice dress, I guess. I haven't thought about it much."

For the first time this morning, he looks a little annoyed. "Come on, Katniss, I know you don't want to mentor, but you need to take this seriously. Yeah, everything worked out for you in the Games, whether you followed directions or not, but the truth is that you're not the only person your actions are affecting."

I've heard this one before. "I know, Peeta. You've told me. So have Effie, and Haymitch, and Snow."

"_President_ Snow. Katniss, we are on live TV in 60 minutes. You have exactly one hour to look pretty, smile, and play nice for the cameras. Pull it together."

I respond by slamming the door in his face.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, I'm decked out in a huge layered pink skirt and silver top, with silver heels and bangles and necklace. My earrings are silver too, with tiny coral stones. My hair is pulled tight on top of my head with a ridiculous pink bow.

"They're going to laugh at us," I tell Peeta.

"Who? The kids at the Reaping?"

"No. Well, yes, but that's not what I mean. The other victors. They never dress like the Capitol people. They wear normal clothes. They need to take us _seriously_, Peeta. If we're going to make alliance deals with them, they can't be thinking we're Capitol puppets."

"I get what you mean. Maybe we can talk to Effie."

"You know what Effie's going to say." I roll my eyes and put on an affected Capitol accent, making it high and girly. "You're all just being silly."

"What about Cinna or Portia?" he suggests.

"They're going to be busy with the tributes. Remember, we're not the sole focus of this anymore. This is about the children. Not us."

He shrugs. "The only person left is Haymitch."

"Right. Like he's going to help."

"Then you're just going to have to suck it up, Katniss."

"This is a big deal!" I exclaim. "You said it yourself before. Our actions don't just affect us!"

"I didn't mean _clothing_."

"But it is the clothing. It's everything. We have to look strong and able, not like pesky dolls. We have to be certain. What's wrong with jeans and boots?"

He adjusts his grey tie. "Then change."

"What?"

"Don't wear that then."

"Great." I head into the bedroom, put on black leggings and a tight purple shirt that I think they call a cropped top. "I think this will pass everyone's test. Are you going to put on different clothes?"

"I think the men wear suits," he replies, slipping on shiny black shoes that the Capitol said we were imported from far, far away. Somewhere named Inali, perhaps? Italy? Emili?

Suddenly, there is a loud knock on the door.

* * *

"Oh my goodness, Katniss, Peeta, darlings!" Effie bustles in, her usual enthusiastic self, adorned in a flouncy blue dress with ten-inch high white heels and a plethora of necklaces. An azure wig is perched precariously on her head. She air-kisses our cheeks and is about to hug me when she notices my outfit. "Katniss, dear, what on _Earth_ are you wearing?"

I shrug.

"Where is that beautiful skirt I picked out for you?"

"Hanging up. In my closet."

"But you must wear that! It's your first television appearance ever. Don't you want to look good?"

"You mean except for the two weeks I spent fighting to the death for the entire nation to see?" I quip.

She pats me on the head. "Wear what you want, then. But the cameras are going to turn up in five minutes."

"Katniss." Cinna strides into the room in red pants and a white shirt. "I hope you're not still expecting me to dress you?"

"Of course not." I'm not sure whether he's joking.

"You're not wearing that?"

"What's wrong with it?" Now I'm on the defensive.

"Everything," a voice drawls from the door. "You're not making any deals in that outfit, sweetheart. Victors have to be dressed to the nines. Especially you, darling."

"Haymitch?"

He gulps a deep amber liquid from his flask. "I'm serious, sweetie. You better get ready. If the cameras catch you in that, you can kiss any chance of your tributes living goodbye." He grins and claps Peeta on the shoulder. "Good man."

"Thanks, Haymitch." He looks confused, but he's already playing his part.

And I suddenly understand we're part of a bigger picture. Of _course_ the other mentors will be dressed up. Just like the tributes. Just like the Capitol residents. Just like everyone else. What will I look like in my pathetic outfit? For the fourth time this morning, I retreat to my room to change clothes.


	3. Chapter 2 - District 1 Reapings

***DISTRICT 1***

* * *

***RENEE CHARLOTTE MITCHELL*  
*SEVENTEEN*  
**

"Atten_tion_!"

The sound of marching, thick white boots clomping heavily against the ground, rises Renee Mitchell from her slumber. Respectfully, she once again closes her eyes and bows her head, praying for everyone's safety on this Reaping Day. Then she swings her legs over the edge of her bed and stands.

The orange lights on her clock glow: 7:02. The Reaping is in 58, no, make that 57 minutes.

Renee heads into the kitchen, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket. As she takes her first bite, her mother appears in the room.

"Good morning," she mumbles through her mouthful of food.

Normally, Sarah Mitchell will chastise her daughter for her lack of manners, but today she has more important matters on her mind. She takes a few steps closer to Renee, darts furtive looks around the otherwise empty house, as though worrying they're being watched, and lowers her voice to a hiss. "Did you pray this morning?"

"Of course."

"You're not going to volunteer, Renee?" The sound of each syllable echoes in her ear.

"There'll be plenty of people to do that," she assures her mother with a laugh. Renee tosses the apple core into the garbage and makes her way back to her room, where Sarah has laid out her Reaping outfit.

An off-white dress is perched on her bed. It has a soft silk-like skirt and a halter bodice. White pumps and headband are carefully lying next to it.

In record time, Renee splashes water on her face and brushes her teeth. Her dark hair, black as the sky on a moonless night, falls in thick, natural waves down to the small of her back,and all she has to do is brush out some of the frizz. Her sun-kissed skin glows, and her mocha-colored irises sparkle. Usually, she wears cat's-eye glasses, but today is a special day, so she puts on contact lenses and slips an extra package into a secret pocket in her dress before donning the outfit.

Suddenly, there is a knock on her door. Renee makes sure her attire is properly covering everything before opening it. "Good morning, Father."

"Good morning, Renee." Thomas Mitchell is still dressed in his Peacekeeper suit, but he's holding the helmet under his arm. "You look gorgeous."

"Thank you." She smiles politely.

"Happy Reaping." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver-edged dagger. The handle is made of cork, and engraved with the initials TDM. Thomas David Mitchell. "I want you to have this, Renee."

She turns the knife over in her hands, watching as the light reflects off the blade. "It's beautiful."

"Keep it if you are Reaped. They will let it slide as your token."

* * *

***ACHILLES ALDIVORE*  
*FIFTEEN*  
**

"I'm getting up," Achilles moans, stretching and arching his back. "I'm getting up."

"Who're you talking to, Freak?" His twin sister, Lust, rolls over to glare at him. "I'm trying to sleep."

"I told myself to get up," he explains timidly, instinctively cowering away from Lust.

At 5'9, Lust is a ruthless killing machine. She's been training since she was old enough to be Reaped, every day, as often as she can. And this is the year she plans to volunteer. "What do you mean, you told yourself to get up?"

"The voices," Achilles mumbles, tapping his head. "They said that today is the Reaping, and that I needed to get up. If I'm not at the Reaping, I will bring shame upon my District. Why? Are they wrong?"

She sighs, the sound cutting through the air like a knife. Her blue eyes snap with annoyance. "What an idiot."

* * *

***DISTRICT 1 REAPING***

Halla Glamini has been the District 1 escort for the past ten years, and has never grown a day older. Or that's what it seems like. Her skin has always been a pale shade of purple, silky-soft and wrinkle-free. Her grey eyes are brisk and busy. And her stride is purposeful. She struts onto the stage, grinning for the cameras. "Good morning, young ladies and gentlemen. As you all know, today is the 75th Quarter Quell."

A chorus of stamping feet and whoops of applause are heard throughout the square as Halla click-clacks in her foot-high boots over to the two glass bowls in the center of the stage.

"Wait!" It's Lust Aldivore, sounding particularly venomous. The second the word escapes her mouth, every child falls silent. What stunt is she planning to pull now? "What's the Quarter Quell this year?"

"Right, right, of course. Incidentally, I am not allowed to tell you." The prospective tributes roar with indignation. Halla holds up a hand, palm out. "President Snow will give you that information personally."

Eyebrows raise. This has never happened before. Of course, it's only the third Quarter Quell.

"Anyway, ladies first!" She digs around for a while, her gleaming gold fingernails clinking against the glass bowl. "Lust Aldivore!"

_I can't let her go into the arena_, Renee thinks, panicking. _She has a sick brother. Of course she wants to stay home and care for him_. Without another thought, those two dreaded words escape from her mouth.

"I volunteer."

Achilles cranes to find the girl who just volunteered for his sister. He knows Lust will want to murder her, and he needs to save her now. Those voices are telling him to save her. But before he can so much as move toward the girls' section, Halla is rummaging through the second bowl.

"Achilles Aldivore!"

Nobody volunteers. Most of the children think he is a waste of space, an embarrassment to District 1. Even though Achilles trains with them, eats with them, and goes to school with them, they believe they'd be better off if he didn't exist. There's no way he'll survive the Games.

* * *

**so. what do ya'll think? pretty please tell me, or I won't know how to improve.  
****also, if a character is yours, do me a favor and leave me a nice long review, so i know if i'm playing him/her right. otherwise, i have no way of telling.  
****thanks for reading this! :)**


	4. Chapter 3 - District 2 Reapings

***DISTRICT 2***

* * *

***CILENNA ERIN MOWAYED*  
*SIXTEEN***

"Cilenna! Why aren't you up?"

The harsh voice of her father brings Cilenna back to reality. She clicks off her flashlight, slips a bookmark into her spot, and peels the covers off. "I'm awake, Daddy. I'm awake."

"I hope you didn't have your nose buried in another goddamn book when you should have been at training."

"Of course not." She stands, already pulling her waist-length chesnut-brown locks into a high, tight ponytail and securing it with a black elastic.

"Go for the six to seven slot, understand? And then come back. We have to have you ready for the Reaping at 8:30."

"Yes, Daddy." After he leaves, she dons a black catsuit-like outfit with hard padding over her chest, stomach, and knees and laces up old white sneakers. Then she leaves via the back door and crosses over to Rosie's house.

Rosie is Cilenna's best friend. With her empathetic eyes, kind demeanor, and loving family, she's everything Cilenna wants to be. Rosie greets Cilenna with a quizzical smile. "What are you doing here, Lenna?"

"Dying," she moans. "They keep saying if I don't volunteer this year they'll disown me."

"Oh, Lenna, I'm so sorry." Rosie embraces her friend. "But at least you have a fighting chance."

"They think I'm at the training center," she whispers. "Can we go inside?"

"Of course. Mom's making a special Reaping breakfast. Do you want some?"

She grins. "When wouldn't I?"

They sit down together at the high-finish dining room table, waiting for fruit and pancakes to be ready. As they lounge on the wooden chairs, they discuss the Reaping.

"Are you going to volunteer? For real?" Rosie asks.

"I don't know." Cilenna bites her lip. "I'm scared." It's hard to get the words out. District 2 children aren't supposed to be scared of the Games. They're supposed to be excited, bloodthirsty, ready to kill. They're supposed to be especially experienced in drawing out deaths to make them suspenseful and painful. They're supposed to be the Capitol's favorite District.

"Me too," Rosie whispers, and lets her head drop to Cilenna's shoulder.

She fights off the urge to cry. "Listen, Rosie, I think I am going to volunteer."

"You don't have to be worried. We'll take you in. Mom and Dad will say yes. They know how your parents are."

"It's not just that. I really hate my life sometimes. I love you, of course, but I can't survive like this. Maybe I just need to... get away."

"Lenna, you can't leave me. You can't." Rosie chokes on her words. "I won't _let_ you. I'll go instead."

"Thanks, Rosie, but don't. This is something I need to do on my own. Come visit me when you get to say good-bye. Please."

* * *

***STYX FLAME*  
*FOURTEEN***

"Come do target practice with me," Crimson says, nudging Styx with her shoulder as she tests the weight of a spear.

"Alright." Styx grins and follows Crimson over. This is his last chance to practice for the Games before Reaping. He's not planning on volunteering, but if he gets Reaped, he will damn well get out of that arena, and kill every girl and boy who stands in his way. Except the little ones. He's always had a soft spot for the little ones.

"Ready?" Crimson asks, her finger poised over the button.

"Go for it." He grips the wooden handle tighter, pointing the spear at the chest of a dummy.

"Three, two, one... Now!" She slams her hand down.

Styx throws the spear, runs to retrieve it, and spins as another silhouette advances on him. He plunges the weapon into that one's chest, then into another one's head, before chucking it at a figure sneaking up behind him. With a wild flourish, he lunges, pierces a leg, plunges into a heart, and bows, as one by one the neon green illuminations crackle and pop, fading into the air.

"Nice, Styx!" shouts Brent Edwards, who is grappling with an assistant.

"Way to go, man!" yells Crane Farson.

"Thanks!" He smiles and bows again.

"Good job, Styx." His trainer, a lean, tough man named Shania, who won the 62nd Games, approaches him, limping slightly. "Just remember: you can't rely entirely on that spear in the arena."

"I know. I can use anything, really, darts, trident, whatever. They'll have something."

"Great." Shania nods deeply before staggering over to Crimson.

Styx sighs. He needs to save his family, needs to get them money. His father sunk into a horrible depression after his youngest sister, Lief, died, and later killed himself. His mother, Kelna, tries her best to support her three children, but he knows it's hard. He has to help. He has to give himself over to the Games. He has to win.

* * *

***DISTRICT 2 REAPING*  
**

Gracie-Lyn May is the worst escort in the history of the Games. That is the one thing everyone in Panem agrees on. "Good morning, tribu- er, children of District 2!" she screeches in her nails-on-chalkboard soprano. "How is everyone today?"

No one bothers to reply.

"Fabulous, just enchanting! Now, now, I supposed I'd better select our young lady's name first." She clears her throat directly into the microphone, the disgusting sound of saliva hitting the transmitter makes everyone cringe. "Well, well," she murmurs. "Billie Jacobson. Come up here, Billie! Let's see your beautiful face."

Cilenna is so relieved her name hasn't been called that she forget she's supposed to volunteer. Then she catches sight of her parents' faces. Maria looks furious. Her teeth are gritted in a horrible scowl, and her eyebrows are knitted together ferociously. When she makes eye contact with her daughter, she mouths a complicated word, made more confusing by how quickly she says it. But Cilenna has heard it so often she has no trouble deciphering it. _Volunteer_. Paul's face has turned red, and he is straining to break through the black velvet ropes that separate the ineligible residents of District 2 from the potential tributes. Maria is holding him back, her nails digging into his shoulder.

_Volunteer._

"My name is Cilenna Erin Mowayed, and I volunteer as tribute!" She's shocked no one has yelled out sooner. Usually, District 2 falls all over themselves to go into the arena, but maybe it's been less time than she thought. As soon as her voice breaks the silence, there are shouts heard all over the square.

"I volunteer!" "Let me!" "No, I want to go in!" "I volunteer for the Games!"

"Cilenna?" Gracie-Lyn asks. "You were the first one I heard. Come on up!"

Quickly, she lifts her head, puts on a haughty expression, and makes the journey from her spot up to the stage. There is a small riot, as there is every year, hundreds of girls rushing the stage, hoping to steal the coveted spot away from Cilenna. Armed Peacekeepers hold them back.

Oblivious, Gracie-Lyn continues. "Now for the young men! Let's see now!" She dips her fingers with their eight-inch gel tips into the glass bowl and feels around. Although almost no one in District 2 needs it, practically everybody signs up for tesserae to increase their chances of making it into the Games, so the container is stocked to the brim. "Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. Take a tribute by their toes. If they holler slit their throat. President Snow says to pick the very best one and you... are... it. Find a tribute nice and new; I... choose... you!"

Everyone stares. Some shuffling of feet and awkward coughs are heard as people prepare to volunteer.

"Ryker Flame!"

_My brother. That's my brother. _Styx gulps and shouts, "I volunteer!" As he walks up to the platform, he focuses on only his destination, which will be back home, safe and sound, in a matter of weeks.

The Games will be the easy part.

Styx doesn't know how he will say goodbye.


	5. Chapter 4 - District 3 Reapings

***DISTRICT 3***

* * *

***KELLY VALENTINES*  
*THIRTEEN***

"Those Reapings are going to be rigged," Kelly tells her brother, Jin. They're sitting on the floor in their minuscule cottage, eating their sparse meal of dried bread and a rationed cup of tea.

Two years ago, Jin had turned 18, and the orphanage where the siblings were living were forced to send them out on their own. Jin had gotten a job in the factories, where his steady hands and 20/20 vision makes him perfect for the job of repairing fault motherboards.

Kelly, at 13, doesn't take after Jin at all. She's quick and fidgety, but wise beyond her years. She knows the Peacekeepers had burned down their family's house back when she was eight. She knows that the mayor wouldn't have given two shits about whether they lived own their own if it had been a normal house fire, but he had them placed in the orphanage so the Peacekeepers could keep an eye on them. And she knows everything about why her parents had to die.

Jin shrugs. "So far, we haven't taken tesserae. Your name's in there twice. My name's in six times. That's all."

"It doesn't matter." She shakes her head with a smirk. Her wavy chocolate-brown tresses swing against her cheekbones. "I'm pretty sure I'm in there way more than twice. And you? My God, you'd be lucky if every single slip doesn't say Jin Valentines."

Jin is examining a green computer chip, debating whether it is fixable. It's a special order, sent in especially by President Snow, and Jin has been dispatched to bend the wires back into shape. "If I screw this up, then I'll most certainly be going into the Games. And I'm pretty sure President Snow would want me dead as fast as possible. You know what he has on here? His _diary_."

"Is there a way for us to read that?" Kelly asks eagerly.

"No way, Kelly. You have to stop thinking that way." He drops the chip to the floor and slumps his shoulders. "This is useless. I'm dead."

Kelly holds out her hand. "Can I see something?"

"You better not-"

She doesn't heed his warning. Instead, she snatches the chip, drops it to the floor, and slams her foot down on it. Green splinters and copper wires explode, flying everywhere.

"Kelly Valentines!" Jin shouts. "Just what the hell was that?"

"I know I'm going into the Games anyway. I'm planning on volunteering!"

"What?"

"You heard me. I know I can win these Games. Last year, that boy Mitchell joined the Careers and let them down. That was his mistake. I'm going to join the Careers too, but I'll do it right. And then I'll kill them in their sleep."

"It's not that easy, Kelly. You're giving yourself over to certain death. Why would you do that?"

"Because I want to."

* * *

***GRANT KESLEY SIMMONS*  
*SIXTEEN***

"Happy Reaping, Cianna," Grant whispers to his girlfriend, gripping her hand tightly as the sun comes up over the horizon.

"Happy Reaping." She forces a smile and leans her head on Grant's shoulder. "Grant, what if you get Reaped?"

"Then I'll win." He squeezes her fingers. "It's okay, C. It's alright."

In spite of herself, tears drip from her small, bright green eyes. "But..." She can't voice the thought.

"I'll win for you. Okay, C? I'll do it all for you."

"What if... what if you... I don't want you turning into a murderer."

"The Hunger Games are different. Either I'm a murderer or I'm dead."

"I know, Grant, believe me, I know."

Then he remembers. Cianna's older brother was killed in the Games. He got to the top five with his alliance, and when it came down to him and one bloodthirsty girl, he couldn't bring himself to attack her. She pierced him with her knife, and that was the end.

Grant lifts Cianna off the ground and into his arms. "I'll always be here for you, okay, C? I promise."

"Thank you, Grant." She pecks him lightly on the lips. "I just wish... I wish we knew what would happen."

"We will. Soon." He smiles sadly, reaching up to push a loosely curled white-blonde lock of hair out off her forehead. "They can try their hardest, but nothing can tear us apart."

* * *

***DISTRICT 3 REAPING***

"I've just been checking out your factories," announces Edwin Bass, one of the few male escorts and easily the most evil. He has small, elf-like ears, a long, pointed nose, and sharp-edged teeth that give him a sinister smile. He layers on bright red blush and has lavender hair, but it doesn't make anyone laugh. It just makes his overall appearance scarier. "You're all working very hard, I see."

A few of the younger children shiver.

"We are," Mayor Grenkins assures him. "Please get on with the Reaping, Edwin."

"Do not address me by my first name, Grenkins! I am Mr. Bass, or sir." Swiftly, he bends to Grenkins' height and backhands him across the face.

"Yes, Ed- sir." His breathing is coming quickly, and his breathing is ragged. A patch of yellow appears over his cheekbone.

"Better." Edwin advances slowly over to the bowls and snatches the first piece of paper he reaches. "Malaysia O'Kane."

"I volunteer." The voice of Kelly Valentines is steady but loud, and she's already advancing up the steps before anyone takes notice of her.

Mayor Grenkins is the first. "Kelly Valentines." A slow smirk spreads across his face.

"That's me, sir." She gives the mayor a stony glare.

He clears his throat. "Thank you for volunteering. I'm sure you'll bring pride to our District." He steps closer to shake her hand. As he leans in, he mutters, "If you know what's good for you, you'll die in that arena."

Edwin doesn't hear. Once again, he retrieves the first slip he touches. "Grant Simmons."

Grant slowly advances up to the stage, his brown boots thudding in the short, barren grass.

There is an anguished scream. "Grant! No! Grant!" Cianna runs toward him, arms wide. Two Peacekeepers chase after her.

"For God's sake, Cianna, I'll talk to you in a few minutes! Don't-" He is about to tell her not to be a baby, not to make a fool out of herself, but he checks himself. Girlfriend back home who's desperate for his return? He couldn't have played it better himself. He pretends to brush a tear out of his hazel eye. "Don't worry, C. I'll come back. I promise." And then he realizes exactly what will keep the Capitol enthralled.

"Remember when we watched the sunset?"

Confused, she nods.

"Take care of the baby."


	6. Chapter 5 - District 4 Reapings

***DISTRICT 4***

* * *

***RIVER CLARKE*  
*FOURTEEN***

"Do you need help?" River asks for the eighth time, watching her 19-year-old brother struggle to pour himself a glass of water. She looks at him, at how pathetic he looks, with drool dripping down his chin and big, shaky hands, but she can't bring herself to feel sorry. She needs to be strong.

"I can d-d-do it," he stutters, trying his best to get the words out.

"Here, let me." She reaches over and tips the pitcher just so, so that a thin stream of water fills his cup halfway, nothing spilled, nothing wasted. They can't afford it.

"R-r-reaping day," he murmurs, violently upending the glass, so liquid slops over the table. "Reaping Day, River."

"I know, Aquarius. I know. It's okay." Slowly, she mops up the spill as best as she can with the hem of her too-big shirt.

"Not okay. No no no no no."

River knows it's not okay. She does have a heart. She remembers that her parents were shot and killed for treason right in front of him. That day, everything inside her brother got mixed up somehow, as though his thoughts are fine, but his brain can't control his nerves, muscles, or speech. Or anything.

Be strong.

River pats Aquarius on the shoulder with a sad, heavy smile. "Reaping or not, I have to be at work for an hour. Is it alright if I go?"

"No. No leave. River no leave."

She bites her lip. If she gets fired, they will both starve. No question. "I have to, Aquarius. I'm sorry."

He jumps out of his chair and throws his arms around her. "My poor sweet sister. Don't leave me."

She wants to repeat that it's only for an hour, and then they'll be back together, safe and sound. The problem is that it's possible she will get Reaped, and she doesn't know who will care for her brother. After all, what if she gets back and finds him dead? Then what?

Maybe her life would be a little easier. No Aquarius to deal with, no worries about hassling for food for two people, no avoiding Child Services, who surely believe that her brother is an inadequate guardian.

Of course, Aquarius just _has _to voice her thoughts. "What if you get Reaped, River?"_  
_

"Honestly, Aquarius? I'm not sure." She puts both their glasses in the sink and runs barely any water over them, just enough so the milk in her cup won't become crusty and sour.

"W-what d-do you m-m-me-mean?" He sounds so shaky and fragile. "Who will be here with m-me?"

"I'm really not sure." She can't look at her brother's face as she ducks out of their tiny hut, closing and barring the door behind her.

* * *

***DAX HEARTH*  
*FIFTEEN***

"Yo, Devil!" shouts his boss, a young man with a mohawk and a tattoo of a killer shark on his bicep. "Get over here! You're in charge of the nets today!"

Dax is in charge of the nets at least four times a week, and it's easily the most dangerous job. All sorts of things get caught up in the nets, from electric eels to baby sharks to poisonous jellyfish. The Net Man, as it's called, has to sort through the animals and decide what's worth keeping (oysters, clams, salmon) and what's not (trout, sardines, goldfish). Anything not worth keeping is thrown into a bucket for the fishermen to eat on their break. Anything that is worth keeping is shipped to the Capitol. The one good thing about working nets is that Dax can pocket the good stuff. He has to feed his family somehow.

"Devil's got nets again!" yells Barker Fin, laughing. A few of his cronies snicker with him.

"My name is not Devil!" screams Dax.

"Why do they call you Devil?" asks a small voice.

Dax looks down to see a curly-haired girl trailing him. "You shouldn't be here," he tells his cousin Hayley.

She ignores him.

"I'm serious." He shakes his head as he pulls a shirt over his muscled torso. Dax always comes prepared to dive for pearls, his dream job, but he's never gotten a chance. People are too biased against him. They don't trust him in the water.

"Me too." She shrugs. "Why do they call you Devil, Dax?"

"Because the day I was born, my parents were at sea. There was a horrible storm that day, and dozens of people drowned. They blame it on me. Okay, Hayley?"

"Okay." Hayley skips away.

Incredulously, Dax stares after her.

* * *

***DISTRICT 4 REAPING***

As Glory Green, the District 4 escort, crosses the stage to select the female tribute, Dax is still at home.

"It's okay. I'll hide down in the cellar. What will you do without me?"

"I have a job too." His mother smiles, though it's pained. "We'll be in more trouble if you're caught."

"I won't be caught," he assures her, already opening the trapdoor.

"No." She hands him a ripped-up suit, the only thing his alcoholic father left behind. "You need to change. Right now."

Someone pounds on the door. "Peacekeepers! Open for the Peacekeepers!"

"Coming!" Melanie Hearth shouts.

"Are there any children of Reaping age still in the house?"

"Yes, my son, Dax. He's changing. He'll be out in a second."

Before she can finish her sentence, Dax returns with his hair neatly parted and still wet. Troubled, he glances at the Peacekeepers, whose faces are hidden by their tinted helmets. "I'm here, Mom. Let's go."

Back at the Reaping, Glory Green pinches a piece of paper and ceremoniously unfolds it. "River Clarke."

River draws her mouth into a straight line, tightens her wavy black ponytail, and weaves through the crowd. She's short for her age, and no one makes room for her, so she shoves people aside as she goes. When she gets to the stage, she turns toward the audience, stony-faced.

Glory swallows, trying to decrease the awkwardness. "And our male tribute is... Dax Hearth! Dax? Where are you?"

Clearly, he's not there.

Glory has never had to deal with two problems at one Reaping. She turns to Mayor Johanson. "What..."

"I'm here!" It's a holler from the sea of potential tributes, and children move over to allow him to pass. "I'm here."

The escort exhales, relieved. "Give it up for River Clarke and Dax Hearth!"


	7. Chapter 6 - District 5 Reapings

***DISTRICT 5***

* * *

***SADIE JOHANAST***  
***FOURTEEN***

Sadie nudges her horse, Roana, into a gallop, listening to the even rhythm of hooves thumping against packed dirt. As she's about to jump the three-foot pasture fence, she hears someone calling her name.

"Sadie!" Georgia shouts. "Mom says breakfast is on the table."

"What?" Sadie yells back to her older sister.

"Breakfast is on the table!" Georgia screams, wildly waving her arms.

"I'll be there in ten minutes!" With an aggravated sigh, she steers Roana back to the well, where she slips off the mare's back and ties her to a stake. She picks up a bucket full of oats, and Roana gratefully chows them down. Then Sadie tucks a blanket around her and heads inside.

"Happy Reaping," Dave says sourly, chomping on a piece of bread.

"You eat like an animal," she teases as she reaches for her own slice. "Even Roana would be ashamed of you."

Dave grins. "Hey, kiddo, this isn't the day to be making bad karma for yourself."

"Hay is for horses," Sadie quips back.

"Come on, kids." Mrs. Nicole Johanast turns the stove off to face her children. "Can we get through _one day_without fighting?"

"They're not really fighting." Georgia rolls her eyes playfully.

Nicole forks eggs onto their plates. "Whatever it is, Reaping Day isn't the time to do it."

"Fine." Sadie pouts as she spreads jam on her toast. "Where's Dad?"

"Probably out in the stables," her mother replies, sitting down and gesturing for everyone to eat.

"So he's allowed to spend breakfast riding the horses, but I can't?"

"Exactly. Hurry and eat, Sadie, we have to get you dressed for the Reapings. You have a little over an hour."

Usually, she would say something along the lines of, "I'm _fourteen_, Mom; I can get dressed myself." But today, she finds comfort in getting ready with someone. On the off chance she goes into the Games, she wants as much time as she can get with her family.

* * *

***GRIFFITH NAVA*  
*SEVENTEEN***

Ear-shattering screams pierce the pale pink dawn. In his room, Griffith automatically scoops up the matches from their spot on his bedside table, lights a candle stub, and skulks to his sister's room.

More screams.

"Angel? Angel? Are you okay?" He sets the flickering light on the floor and leans over the girl's bed. "Are you alright?"

She sits up, her gray-blue eyes glassy with pain. Pointing at a shadow on the wall, she gasps out, "They're here. They're coming for me. Griffith. They're coming!"

"Shh, shh." He smoothes back her mousy brown hair. Slowly, although she is only nine, tinges of gray have begun to shoot through it. It's a sure sign she won't last much longer.

The illness she has is called electritis, and it's unique to District 5. Most children age five and up work long, tiring hours in power plants, creating, storing and sending energy and electricity to the Capitol. About one in thirty children contract electritis, a condition in which the victim is directly electrocuted. The power will spread through their bodies via their blood. Nasty side effects include sudden allergies, horrible head and stomach pains, and, of course, hallucinations. Most children will last about three years if they're lucky. Angel has already had it for almost two.

"I'm going to die, Griffith," she whispers. "I don't have much longer."

He knows that. He does. But he can't bring himself to face it. He likes to pretend she'll get better, that working in the factories will bring in enough money. But it never does, and money wouldn't save her anyway.

When he was little, and she was a tiny infant, curled up in a hand-me-down cradle, she meant the world to him. His little eight-year-old body would sit guard over her, and as she grew older, they'd fall asleep next to each other, their tiny chests moving up and down to what seemed like one heartbeat.

Then she got sick.

There's nothing he can do for her, nothing at all. And it almost makes _him_ ill, watching her health decrease slowly but surely, inching her towards death.

He's thought about killing himself plenty of times, but recalling even the meager amount of money he makes from the factories reminds him that even a pouch of coins could mean food and water for Angel, or immediate death. And dutifully, he keeps showing up, on time, every day, to earn a living for his family.

He's not sure how much longer he can keep himself going.

* * *

***DISTRICT 5 REAPING***

"Good morning, good morning!" Bright and chipper Jayla Moxford bounces onto the stage in her signature trampoline shoes. "And it _is _very early." She looks up, as though to judge the sun's place in the sky. Like she doesn't have a huge, thousand-dollar platinum watch fastened around her pale wrist. "Only 10:00?" She clucks her tongue. "My, my, I don't know how you do it every day!"

They refrain from reminding her that most of them are usually awake before dawn.

"Well, I won't waste any more of your precious time! After all, every moment counts! We don't want a power outage in the Capitol!"

_Even her goddamn _voice_ is bouncy. _Griffith rolls his eyes as she selects the girl tribute's name.

"Sadie Johanast!"

With a startled gasp, Sadie chances a glance at her family. Everyone looks heartbroken, so it's no wonder her own heart is breaking. She begins plodding toward the stage. Left, right, left, right, step, step, step, step. It takes tremendous willpower just to walk.

"Good, good, and now for the boys. Griffith Nava!"

At least it's a change of scene.

But by the time he gets back, he knows in his heart Angel will be dead. So maybe there's nothing to live for in the Games.

* * *

**R&R please! :)**


	8. Chapter 7 - District 6 Reapings

***DISTRICT 6***

* * *

***MINNIE MONTE*  
*THIRTEEN***

"Just a little harder," Minnie urges herself, willing her legs to keep going for another minute, and another, and another. It's the only way she can meet up with Darrell. She's panting by the time she stands in front of him.

With his floppy dirty-blonde hair, warm blue eyes, and tough stance, he's Minnie's protector, boyfriend, and best friend all in one. He pecks her on the lips. "Parents not letting you out?"

She rolls her eyes. "I had chores yesterday. You know, so we'd have a good Reaping and wouldn't have to work today."

"Did you know that I waited all morning for you?"

"It's only 7:30."

"Well, I've been out here since 6:00. What do you think of that?"

She grins. "I'm glad I mean so much to you." Minnie fingers the gold charm necklace that she wears as a choker. Engraved with a single letter D, Minnie believes it shows everyone who passes her undying love for Darrell.

"You do." He cups her chin and kisses her passionately.

"Everyone out! District 6! Everyone out!"

"Fuck," Darrell swears, grasping Minnie's wrist. "Peacekeepers."

"We're not doing anything wrong."

"They don't need an excuse. They hate District 6. They think we're scum. Come on, Minnie."

"Where are we going?" she gasps out, stumbling over District boundaries into the abandoned train-yard beyond. Darrell pulls open the door to a rotting warehouse, and, inside, they clutch each other's waists, listening for the sound of boots following them.

Nothing.

And then someone raps on the door.

"Oh my God." Minnie is close to hysteria as she crawls toward a corner, curling up behind rusty metal railroad ties into the black shadows. "Darrell?"

"We know you're in there. Open up and your punishment won't be too extreme. You don't need extra lashes for defying Peackeepers."

Neither moves.

"Open the hell up!" The knob turns, and before them stands a Peacekeeper, dressed all in white. He carries a taser and an automatic rifle, both which are pointing into the shed. Weak sunlight spills in. Minnie's hiding place is clearly visible. "You, bitch. Stand."

She breathes as quietly as she can through her nose, instinctively cowering and closing her eyes.

"I know you're there. You can't fool me. I will drag you out by your ugly brown hair if you don't get up." His guns are still trained firmly on Minnie.

Hoarsely, she chokes out, "I apologize, sir," and rises shakily to her feet, staring down at the dusty, cracking floor. Her chocolate eyes are trained on the ground, and her raven-colored tresses hang limply around her thin face.

"Are you here alone? I thought I saw another person." He tromps around the tiny room, digging through chests and peeking into closets Minnie hadn't noticed.

"N-no one," she finally manages to say. "Just me."

"Fine." He nods and throws her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. "I found one!" he calls to his comrades, who are grouped around the truck, standing up straight, holding their helmets by their sides.

Another Peacekeeper laughs derisively, yanking on a lock of Minnie's hair as she dangles helplessly. "You question her yet?"

"I was saving that for the town square. I would say chain her to the whipping post at 9:45 and begin the interrogation. We can carry out her punishment right before the Reaping. They'll probably broadcast it."

Minnie tries desperately to speak, holding up her purse. It's obvious she's trying to bribe the officials.

The Peacekeeper who laughed does so again and kneels to her height. "You want to pay for your release, pretty?" He tickles her tanned cheek, sending a shiver through her medium-short, lean body. "We'll take it." Gratitude washes through her face as he snatches the bag. "Now tie her up," he orders imperiously. "And gag her. We don't need any whining." He climbs into the driver's seat of the truck and smirks.

"No, please," are her only words before she's stuffed into the trunk, facing the wall.

"To the square?" asks one of the Peacekeepers.

Bitter laughter echoes through the cabin.

"That's right," replies the Head Peacekeeper (otherwise knows as the one who laughed). "To the square."

* * *

***CARSON FAIR*  
*****FIFTEEN***

"You gotta clear out, Becker," Carson tells the slight boy cuddled under a thin sheet at the foot of his cot. "Sorry, but my parents will murder me if they find you here."

Becker smiles lopsidedly. "You mean they won't let a poor beggar stay for the Reaping?"

"Doubt it." Carson opens his window, and Becker shimmies out, dropping to the ground with his bag of possessions and loot and running off.

Then Carson turns to his door. Even from upstairs, he can hear shouts and slaps. His parents fighting. Once again. So instead of going down to the kitchen, he heads across the hall to his sister's room. "Hey, Chesney, you up?"

She rolls over to face him, smiling. "Yeah. Happy Reaping, Carson."

"What's happy about it?" he deadpans, before yanking her into a hug. "Well, you should be happy. You'll be safe for another whole year."

"I'll be happier if you're not Reaped," she whispers.

"Me too."

"Are Mom and Dad arguing again?" Chesney inquires, cocking her head to the side.

"Uh-huh," Carson answers regretfully. "I wish Mom would just kick him out already."

"She's too nice."

Carson exhales and scowls. "I know." He rubs Chesney's shoulder. "But we gotta go and eat before the Reaping, even if your name's not in the bowl. Wanna come down and have some cereal with me?"

"Alright." And with a smile, she follows Carson.

_Innocence_, he thinks ruefully. _I wish I still had some._

The brutal beating he'd received from a vicious Peacekeeper at the tender age of eight caused his skin to toughen much faster than anything else ever could. And now that he's 15, he doesn't feel very much of anything, except possibly affection toward his sister, mother, and the young boy who hides out in his room when the streets are too wet, snowy, or cold.

But that's it.

* * *

***DISTRICT 6 REAPING***

The horn blows early, at 9:40. The residents of District 6 struggle to finish getting dressed, and those of Reaping age hurry into the streets toward the square as quickly as possible. The horn blows again. The children run faster, a confused whisper echoing through the dry streets.

"Silence!" booms the voice of Head Peacekeeper Ronan. "All of you, quiet down." He signals to his fellow Peacekeepers to move aside, revealing a figure slumping against a wooden whipping post. Thick ropes circle over her wrists, stomach, and forehead to keep her in place. A piece of black cloth covers her mouth, but her brown eyes are wide with terror. Her lips tremble as he begins the official proclamation. "This girl was caught outside of District 6 boundaries and will be questioned and lashed accordingly. Simply for crossing the border, any minor would receive eight lashes. Now, how many should we add?" He leers and speaks into a thick microphone. All cameras are focused on him as he yanks out the girl's gag. "What is your name?"

She doesn't reply.

"One extra lashing. Let's try again. What is your name?"

"M-Minnie."

"Minnie what?"

"Minnie Monte."

Grandly, Ronan sweeps his arm. "This is Minnie Monte. Now, Minnie, how old are you?"

"14."

"14. Quite young to be sneaking out of your District. Now, were you with anyone, Minnie Monte?"

She shakes her head as a shout rings through the silent square. "Minnie! Minnie!"

Her reply is heard even through the gag. "Darrell! _Help!_"

"Two more lashes, and be grateful it isn't more. What do you not understand about silence?" he whips around to yell at the crowd.

"I'm coming, Minnie, I'm coming!"

But just as Darrell appears in her line of sight, two Peacekeepers grab him expertly by his arms and twist them behind his back, clipping them together with handcuffs.

"Would you like lashes as well?" Ronan demands, spit flying through the air.

"I was with her! It's not just her! It's not her fault!" Darrell screams.

In one motion, Ronan shoves him against the post and ties him there. "You lied, did you, Minnie?"

"N-no, I..."

_"Liar."_

"I..."

"Five more lashes. What were you doing outside of your District, Minnie? You should be happy to live here. Just two years ago, your first male victor won. Your family should still be saving the spoils of that. So what could possibly make you want to leave?"

"I made her, okay, Ronan?" Darrell twists around as far as he can.

"What did you just call me?"

"Ronan," Darrell shoots back. "That's your name, is it not?"

"You dirty little... Why did you make her?"

He stumbles. "I don't know."

"Very well." He checks a beeping black timepiece attached to his uniform. "Drat. We have to have you all registered in nine minutes. So let's count these up. For Minnie: the default eight, plus one, two, and five. That makes sixteen. For this distraction over here, we have 11 for obstructing, plus, let's see, how about seven for insolence? And since you seem to be a pair, let's put it all together. 16 for you, 18 for you, makes 34. So 34 for each of you." Another Peacekeeper hands him a whip. Three more turn the teenagers around so their backs are toward Ronan. "Strip them," he snaps.

Minnie buzzes frantically.

_"Strip them."_

"Yes, Sir."

Soon, both their torsos are bare, their arms raised above their heads, their legs cramped under them.

He hits with no mercy. Bloody lines appear on their bodies. A bright red glow engulfs them. They pass out around the 14th stroke.

The audience stands silent as they are herded into lines to sign in.

Another male escort, Brett Richards, is well-liked among District 6, as he doesn't waste time. "Minnie Monte," he reads, deliberately ignoring the spectacle occurring across from him. "Minnie?"

Two Peacekeepers lift her unconscious body and carry her into the Justice Building.

"And Carson Fair."

Carson strides straight inside, without a thought. All he knows is that he'll have to be allies with this young girl. Maybe neither of them has a chance of winning. But he knows how he'd feel if he didn't try to save her.

Like a repulsive failure.

Again.

* * *

**this might be too much and too long and too intense. tell me if you think so. ;) but i just felt like i was writing too much fluff.**

**thanks for all the reviews! keep it up! :D**


	9. Chapter 8 - District 7 Reapings

***DISTRICT 7***

* * *

***STARIA ASPEN*  
*SIXTEEN***

Gritting her teeth, Staria forces herself to make her way once again into the woods on the east side of District 7. It's always been a hard place for her. After her parents died in a huge forest fire (thanks to a bonfire left sparking by Peacekeepers), she's been scared to be near the trees.

"Staria!" shouts her squadron leader, Bena Solomon, a middle-aged woman with long dark hair and one eye sewn shut. "Stop dreaming and move your butt over here. These trunks ain't gonna chop themselves, ya know." She chomps on gum, a luxury.

"Sorry." Staria drags herself through the foliage, pausing before bringing up her axe and smashing it into the bottom of the tree.

"Hey, Star!" hollers one of her friends, 17-year-old Jaykob. "Can you take over here for a few minutes? It's just branding these logs."

"Sure," she agrees, setting down her axe and walking over to the machine. Trimmed trunks pour out the side onto the ground, and Staria sets to work burning her squadron's logo (a fancy S, with a seven nestled in the bottom curve) into the logs.

Staria's almost finished when Bena shouts, "That's all for today. Reaping in one hour. Potential tributes, get home, get changed, and good luck. The rest of you, have a nice day off. See you bright and early tomorrow."

* * *

***SEBASTIANO SCHILLACIANI*  
*EIGHTEEN***

Sebastiano arises late on Reaping Day. _Just one more time. One more time, and you'll never face the chance of being Reaped again. _After what happened with his father, Seb knows he would die if he went into the Hunger Games, because he will never again be able to kill someone with a knife, and that's the only weapon he really knows how to use.

He doesn't know what time it is, but the sun is well up, and District 7 Reapings take place at 11:00 sharp. To his judgement, it's probably already after 10:00. He throws off his thin blankets and looks around his empty house. Ever since the day he became an orphan, he's lived alone, on autopilot.

He wakes up, chops down some trees, accepts his meager portion of money and rations, and shows up once a year at the Reaping.

He also dreams.

Not good dreams.

They're mostly nightmares. The night when his abusive father beat and strangled his mother to death. That was the same night Seb had grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer and stabbed Mr. Schillachiani four times: twice in the back, once in the leg, and once straight through the heart.

Technically, he'd orphaned himself, but he doesn't like to think that way.

* * *

***DISTRICT 7 REAPING***

In her clean forest-green dress that matches her eyes, Staria stands surrounded by a group of girls her age.

"So, Staria," asks the obnoxious Ream Keller, "do you think that dreamy Seb Schillachiani will be Reaped?"

"I'm not really sure, Ream," Staria replies. "What do you think?"

"I don't know, but I sure hope not," Ream rattles. "I mean, then he wouldn't walk around the District anymore. He's _totally_ the strong, silent type."

Personally, Staria thinks Seb Schillachiani is stuck-up and conceited, and she wonders for the umpteenth time just why the hell Ream is so popular when she doesn't even know what she's even talking about. "Yeah, Ream, I guess I'd miss him too."

"Shh." Bellie Myrns slaps Staria on the arm. "The Reaping is starting."

Staria turns back to pass the message back to the others, then closes her mouth and faces forward again.

Wynter Walsh prances onto the stage. Her entire body is decorated with snowflakes to match her name, even though it's the middle of May. "He_llo_, friends of District 7! How _is _everyone today?"

There are some muted replies of, "Good," but Wynter doesn't hear, as she speaks right through the dull undertone of noise.

"Well, well, that's just _fabulous_!" Wynter takes her time approaching the glass bowls, but chooses a name right away. "Staria _Aspen_!"

"That's you," Ream hisses, shoving Staria forward.

"No shit," Staria snaps. "How much more obnoxious could you be? Honestly, Ream, you're _such _an idiot most of the time."

There's no way she's making it out alive, so she might as well take the opportunity to express her true feelings.

Wynter extends a hand to Staria to help her onto the stage before selecting the boy. "Sebastiano Schi, er, Chi... um, Shillakiani!"

"It's Sebastiano Schillachiani," Seb announces in his careless, arrogant way as he strolls up to the stage. "Call me Seb."

But inside, his heart is pounding.

He's going to die. This is his death sentence.

He is going to die.


End file.
